Labour Love
by GlitchBuru
Summary: She wanted him to be the man she would work to the bone to have.


**Labour Love**

Her short, form fitting skirt was riding up her thighs the moment she sat down at that bar stool. She didn't care. Her long, glossy hair was strewn over her bare back like a waterfall, overbearing and bewildering. Again, she didn't care. As she scanned the club, her teeth dug into her lower lip, full of flavour and a distinct shade of crimson. She never cared.

But the men, the men _always _cared. Not a day passed by for her where they didn't. Even at times when all she wore were her jeans and a sweatshirt, she still remained bombarded with whistles and crude remarks from men, and catty labels from women. Bitch; slut; skank; whore; she'd heard them all too many times to count.

And she knew it was, for the most part, her fault. She _knew _that she was the kind of the girl that attracted these kinds of people. She was materialistic and flirtatious and cunning, it was just who she was. She knew that being like she was for 23 years equalled never being able to change, and that was OK with her. Ever since she was a young girl, she had this firmness to her, this drive to be wanted. Along with her personality came her looks- she had always looked far too old for her age. She also knew she had a sultry body, and used it to her advantage in numerous situations. But there were some days where she just wanted to escape it all- shed her skin and live like a different kind of girl for once. Because she knew she was envied by all, knew that people were "disgusted" by her. And on the inside, she was lonely. Lonely and ashamed. But no one ever caught on, since she was just too good of an actress to show off _that _side of her to anyone. She would never admit it...but she wanted- needed- someone who she could not win over easily. She was tired of getting whatever she wanted whenever she needed it from those hopeless nobodies that kissed her hand and cleaned her shoes. To her, they meant absolutely nothing. Once it was all over for them, they would find out what kind of a woman she really was- and they'd leave. Not a shred of doubt was in her mind about that conclusion. They'd give her money and fine jewellery and top grade pokemon food and enough clothes to last her a lifetime- and a part of her wanted all of that (she was OK with the fact that she was materialistic, after all)- but once _she_ gave them what they wanted (sex; sex; sex) they would get bored and move on. The moment a hotter, grander woman walked by they would leave her and her plastic, hollow party favours behind. She longed for a man who wanted her for more than her body, someone who she could go on dates with and have casual conversations with. She wanted a man who she could bear her deepest and darkest secrets to- and instead of leaving her, he would hold her close and whisper in her ear that everything was alright, that he loved her _in spite of _her faults, not because of them. She wanted to have to work immensely hard just to get him to look her way, to get him to even give a girl like her the time of day. She knew it would have been hard to find a man that fit her criteria in this world of easy catches, but there was always _one _who did. He was her"friend (if he could even be called that) for 11 years running, and he certainly seemed like he didn't want to be associated with her. But that was just the reason why she wanted him so bad- after all, he was the first and only boy she'd ever met that unequivocally wanted to pretend that he'd never even seen her.

And the man in question was in the very same club as she was, sitting at a small, one-seated table reading a magazine and looking bored out of his mind. She chuckled when she saw his brown, auburn hair amongst the crowd- she never knew he liked to spend time at _these _kinds of places.

So she got up off of that bar stool, ignoring the perverted stares that surrounded her (with her head held high), and marched over to his humble little corner of the room. With a flip of her hair and an exaggerated huff, she bent down to he level (seated, of course) and let her hand fall casually on his. She didn't need to look into his eyes- she already knew that signature deadpan expression was already plastered on his uninterested (but handsome) face. Leaning in close, she closed her eyes and tightened her grasp on his hand.

"So, Green. Just what kinds of plans do you have for yourself _tonight, _hmm?"


End file.
